Pelle the Conqueror, Martin Andersen Nexø [best fantasy books to read .TXT] 📗

Klausen will gladly make one of the company; in the eyes of all those present this proposal is a dream which will once more raise the craft to its proper level; will perhaps improve it until the little town can compete with Copenhagen. “How many medals have you really received?” says Jeppe, as he stands there with a great framed diploma in his hand. Garibaldi shrugs his shoulders. “I don’t know, old master; one gets old, and one’s hand gets unsteady. But what is this? Has Master Jeppe got the silver medal?”

Jeppe laughs. “For this I have to thank a tramp by the name of Garibaldi. He was here four years ago and won the silver medal for me!” Well⁠—that is a thing Garibaldi has long forgotten! But medals are scattered about wherever he has been.

“Yes, there are a hundred masters knocking about who boast of their distinctions: first-class workshop⁠—you can see it for yourself⁠—‘a silver medal.’ But who did the work? Who got his day’s wages and an extra drop of drink and then⁠—goodbye, Garibaldi! What has one to show for it, master? There are plenty of trees a man can change his clothes behind⁠—but the shirt?” For a moment he seems dejected. “Lorrain in Paris gave me two hundred francs for the golden medal I won for him; but otherwise it was always⁠—Look in my waistcoat pocket! or⁠—I’ve an old pair of trousers for you, Garibaldi! But now there’s an end to that, I tell you; Garibaldi has done with bringing water to the mill for the rich townsfolk; for now he’s a sosherlist!” He strikes the table so that the glass scrapers jingle. “That last was Franz in Cologne⁠—gent’s boots with cork socks. He was a stingy fellow; he annoyed Garibaldi. I’m afraid this isn’t enough for the medal, master, I said; there’s too much unrest in the air. Then he bid me more and yet more⁠—but it won’t run to the medal⁠—that’s all I will say. At last he sends Madame to me with coffee and Vienna bread⁠—and she was in other respects a lady, who drove with a lackey on the box. But we were furious by that time! Well, it was a glorious distinction⁠—to please Madame.”

“Had he many journeymen?” asks Jeppe.

“Oh, quite thirty or forty.”

“Then he must have been somebody.” Jeppe speaks in a reproving tone.

“Somebody⁠—yes⁠—he was a rascal! What did it matter to me that he had a lot of journeymen? I didn’t cheat them out of their wages!”

Now Garibaldi is annoyed; he takes off his apron, puts his hat on sideways, and he goes into the town.

“Now he’s going to look for a sweetheart!” says the young master; “he has a sweetheart in every town.”

At eight he comes sailing into the workshop again. “What, still sitting here?” he says to the apprentices. “In other parts of the world they have knocked off work two hours ago. What sort of slaves are you to sit crouching here for fourteen hours? Strike, damn it all!”

They look at one another stupidly. “Strike⁠—what is that?”

Then comes the young master. “Now it would do one good to warm one’s eyes a bit,” says Garibaldi.

“There’s a bed made up for you in the cutting-out room,” says the master. But Garibaldi rolls his coat under his head and lies down on the window-bench. “If I snore, just pull my nose,” he says to Pelle, and goes to sleep. Next day he makes two pairs of kid boots with yellow stitching⁠—for little Nikas this would be a three days’ job. Master Andres has all his plans ready⁠—Garibaldi is to be a partner. “We’ll knock out a bit of wall and put in a big shopwindow!” Garibaldi agrees⁠—he really does for once feel a desire to settle down. “But we mustn’t begin too big,” he says: “this isn’t Paris.” He drinks a little more and does not talk much; his eyes stray to the wandering clouds outside.

On the third day Garibaldi begins to show his capacities. He does not do much more work, but he breaks a heavy stick in two with one blow as it flies through the air, and jumps over a stick which he holds in both hands. “One must have exercise,” he says restlessly. He balances an awl on the face of a hammer and strikes it into a hole in the sole of a boot.

And suddenly he throws down his work. “Lend me ten kroner, master,” he says; “I must go and buy myself a proper suit. Now I’m settled and a partner in a business I can’t go about looking like a pig.”

“It will be better for you to get that finished,” says the master quietly, pushing Garibaldi’s work across to little Nikas. “We shan’t see him again!”

This is really the case. He will go into the town with the honorable intentions, to buy something, and then he will be caught and whirled out into the great world, far away, quite at hazard. “He’s on the way to Germany with some skipper already,” says the master.

“But he hasn’t even said goodbye!” The master shrugs his shoulders.

He was like a falling star! But for Pelle and the others he signified more than that; they learned more in three days than in the whole course of their apprenticeship. And they saw brilliant prospects for the craft; it was no hole-and-corner business after all; with Garibaldi, they traveled the whole wonderful world. Pelle’s blood burned with the desire to wander; he knew now what he wanted. To be capable as Garibaldi⁠—that genius personified; and to enter the great cities with stick and knapsack as though to a flourish of trumpets.

They all retained traces of his fleeting visit. Something inside them had broken with a snap; they gripped their tools more freely, more courageously; and they had seen their handicraft pass before their eyes like a species of technical pageant. For a long time the wind of the